


Drifting

by Snowmane



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gen, Remembrance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:10:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowmane/pseuds/Snowmane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small drabble about how the relationship of Zevran and my female Mahariel Warden might have started. With less flirting, less witty lines and no innuendo at all. But with a leaking tent, stolen pillows and the secret wish to have somebody else to keep you company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drifting

Sometimes, even though she is still refusing his more daring advances, he will sneak into her tent in the middle of the night. In the beginning the Crow always had come with an excuse prepared: “It’s raining buckets and the tarpaulin is leaking again”, he said the first time when he slipped under her blankets, making her jump by rubbing his cold feet against her tights. “Do you mind if I stay here until the worst is over? Your tent is the biggest.” She did mind and told him so but all he did was laugh and pat her shoulder. “You wouldn’t want me to catch a cold, would you? Such a harsh leader you are…” She decided than that she wasn’t awake enough to start a serious argument, huffed and stole back her pillow from under his head.

The next time it was “I heard you turn and curse non-stop for the last hour. Bad dreams again, my lovely Warden? Or was I right this morning and your noble beast really caught some fleas?” He got a well-deserved elbow between his ribs from her and a loud growl from Troll but stayed nonetheless.  
After that it was the rain once more. Then the cold, then a particularly uncomfortable rock under his tent (“You don’t want me to move my things in the middle of the night and wake up everybody don’t you?”), more rain, more cold, Oghren’s snoring, a broken vial of poison (“I’d rather not sleep in a bedroll soaked with possibly lethal substances, yes?”), then the cold again. Thinking about it, it was mainly the cold. Silent rulers of Antiva or not, the Crows obviously had not put thought into providing him with any furs or at least a thick woollen blanket before sending Zevran off to Ferelden. Every time she woke up because his ice-cold nose was buried in her hair and even colder hands fumbled for the blankets she promised to buy some winter equipment the next time they stopped by a village or travelling merchant. It was only late summer but he would most likely need it. And of course between raging dark spawn hordes and politic schemes she forgot about it time and time again.

They were playing this game for weeks now and he stopped making up explanations. And if she was honest to herself, she didn’t mind his presence at all anymore.  
Sometime in the dark of the night she would hear the padding of bare feet in front of her tent, then the canvas would flap and Troll would grunt and she would pretend to be still asleep until he crawled under her covers, stole her pillow and wrapped both arms around her from behind. She then would – as a matter of routine – grumble some elvhen curses at him and use his shoulder as a pillow instead, while Zevran chuckled and tried his best to pretend he was actually sorry. That was normally the moment when Troll decided he wanted to sleep in the bed as well and simply flung himself over both their legs. After a few more minutes of wriggling and shifting weight into more comfortable positions both her intruders would lay still again: the dog snoring at their feet and the assassin burying his face in her hair and seemingly falling asleep within minutes.  
And then, in those precious moments before she joined them in the Fade she would close her eyes, dig her fingers in the thick wolf pelt underneath her and imagine that she was home again: Hahren Paivel tending to the fire, not Alistair, the low snoring not coming from the dwarf but from Fenarel (who never admitted this habit of his), the scent of moss and pine needles still clinging to her skin and not the coppery stench of blood on her hands. As well as the man next to her being a different one. She is always careful not to let her fingers linger too long on Zevran’s bare arm. He has scars on his skin that Tamlen hadn’t had and if she is too observant she will even feel the tattoos as slightly raised lines underneath. So she keeps her attention down and her mind absent and then she can dream of a different life until she slips off into true sleep and the Arch Demon haunts her again.

Mahariel does not know that even with his breathing slow and deep, Zevran is awake and he, too, is trying his best not to notice everything that isn’t right about her. Her hair is too short and not thick enough, even though it has the right colour. She isn’t as curvy as Rinna had been, her wiry form a stark contrast to his love’s well-toned body, but she is warm and pliant against him as she sleeps and even if her skin is missing the aromatic scent of sun-dried spices she still smells of leather and a tad like copper and - while pressing a kiss on the tip of her pointy ear and wishing it was someone else’s - he decides again and again that this must be enough for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I always had the feeling that the romances in Dragon Age are sometimes a bit too quick. Well, you could certainly create a flirty, silver-tongued Warden who wouldn't say no to a quick tumble - but maybe there is the option of somebody who is hesitating to trust others this deeply again and not ready to let go of her/his past this quickly.  
> Also I thought it was a bit of a pity how little we get to know about the past relationships of some characters.  
> Hope you enjoy.  
> (And as always - please feel free to point out major mistakes in grammar or my English in general! I'm still learning.)


End file.
